Ports of Call Read online

  The four spacemen began to explore the market, never relaxing their vigilance against thieves and tricksters. Consequently, they encountered only a few trivial incidents which might have been considered unpleasant.

  The first of these episodes later brought them a degree of wry amusement. After wandering about the market for half an hour, they climbed three steps up to a refreshment platform, in order to sample the local beer. The serving woman, while approaching their table, shuffled the menus she was carrying in a peculiar fashion before tendering one to the group.

  Schwatzendale’s suspicions, never dormant, went on full alert. He called out, “Hoy there, madame! Give us one menu for each of us, if you please!”

  The woman spoke brusquely over her shoulder: “That is not our custom here! One menu is enough, since one person can read to the others.”

  As soon as the woman walked away, Schwatzendale switched the menu she had supplied for a similar menu which he took from a nearby table. When the woman returned, she listened to their orders in a manner of surly condescension, then presently served them mugs of seedy beer and a platter of fried sea-stuffs. When they had finished and signaled for the reckoning, she asked for the sum of three sols and twenty dinkets, plus the gratuity.

  Schwatzendale, tilting his head slantwise, uttered a caw of fleering laughter. “You have made a serious mistake!” He pointed to the menu. “We owe for four pints of beer and a platter of fried fish. The charges total sixty dinkets. In view of your mendacity, I see no need for a gratuity. Here is your money.” He put coins upon the table.

  “What nonsense is this?” screamed the woman.

  Schwatzendale signalled Wingo. “By all means, record this ‘mood impression’.”

  “A good idea,” said Wingo.

  The woman cried out in a passion. “The menu is explicit! We allow no cheating at this establishment!”

  Schwatzendale held up the menu. “The prices are clearly noted. See for yourself.”

  The woman stared incredulously, then ran to the kitchen.

  Maloof, gaining his feet, called, “Quick! Away from here!”

  The four jumped down from the platform. The woman came running from the kitchen with a bucketful of fish guts which she threw toward them. The men, however, were well out of range and the slop struck an unsuspecting passerby, who flew into a rage. Climbing to the platform, he overturned several tables and beat the woman soundly. The occasion gave Wingo a number of interesting ‘impressions’, and the crew moved on.

  In the central aisle a second incident occurred, where a troupe of six acrobats stood waiting for employment. As the spacemen approached, they were accosted by the leader: a squat muscular man with a shaved head, massive legs, a full black mustache and sad down-drooping eyes. Like his five agile young assistants, he wore loose scarlet breeches tied at the knees and a tight purple shirt. He called out, “Sirs! We are the Scarbush Lorrakees; for a small fee we will show you miracles of strength and grace, to the concord of vocal harmonies. Our price is moderate.”

  “Stop!” cried Maloof, holding up his hands. “Do not perform! We will not pay! We will not even look!”

  “Quite all right,” said the leader. He swung up his arm in a gesture of reckless gayety. “Pay or no pay, we will perform anyway to show our respect.” He braced himself and barked, “Yip! Yip! Huzza!” His assistants jumped upon him, climbed one on the other, to form a human tower of four tiers, supported upon the shoulders of the leader, who stood with mustaches quivering and teeth bared in exertion. A slip! A mistake! An imbalance! The tower tottered; the leader took a staggering run forward, as if to maintain equilibrium — to no avail. The tower collapsed, falling upon the spacemen, to send Myron and Wingo sprawling under a tumble of writhing bodies. Myron felt nimble fingers at work; he writhed and struggled; he heard a swishing sound and shrill yelps of pain. At last he was free and rose to his feet — but where was his cloak? It was gone! Wingo lay on his back, crying out in fury as the leader worked to pull the boots from his feet. Schwatzendale stepped forward, pointed his finger. A jet of mist sprayed into the leader’s face. Hissing and gasping, he tottered away. Maloof dealt further blows with his stick. One of the acrobats staggered into a stall selling food-stuffs, to send a tray of small yellow fruits to the ground. In a fury the merchant struck the acrobat with a large salt fish. The acrobat fled with the merchant calling curses after him.

  Maloof handed Myron his cloak. “I gave the thieves several raps where it hurt the most; they will attempt no more mischief today.”

  Wingo spoke in outrage, “The villain intended to take my boots, with no regard for my poor feet! We must report this episode to the agent!”

  “A good idea,” said Maloof. “I doubt if he will be surprised. Many of these folk cannot be trusted. Shall we proceed? They seem to be selling some interesting fabric at the booth yonder.”

  Wingo brought his outrage under control. “Very well. Now that I think of it, we need a new tablecloth or two, and those intricate patterns will work quite nicely.”

  The third untoward incident of the afternoon now occurred.

  Several pieces of material had been draped down the front of the stand, seemingly to advertise the range of pattern and color. Wingo leaned over the table to inspect the fabric, his pouch, dangling from his shoulder on leather straps, swinging close to the front of the table. The cloths hanging down the front of the stall stealthily parted. Through the slit came a pair of scissors, then a gnarled hand, then a gaunt gray arm. The scissors cautiously closed upon the straps supporting Wingo’s pouch. Maloof, standing to the side, noticed the operation. He seized the arm, heaved hard, and out from under the table tumbled an old woman with an enormous nose, straggling gray hair, gaunt arms and legs. She rolled out into the aisle, then, wheezing and groaning, tried to crawl away. Maloof whisked down his stick and struck her a smart blow on the back-side, then two more for good measure. She pulled herself to her feet and faced Maloof, howling imprecations. Maloof held her away with the point of his stick; frustrated, she spat at him and cursed even more intemperately. Maloof told the others, “I find this sort of language offensive; it is time that we were returning to the ship.”

  “I agree,” said Wingo in disgust. “I have lost interest in the fabric. In any case, it is of poor quality.”

  Maloof addressed the woman: “Madame, you should be ashamed of yourself! Your conduct is wicked and your language is vile. For punishment, I intend to confiscate your scissors.”

  “No! Never! Not my best Glitzers!”

  “You should have thought of this before you tried to rob poor Wingo! Next time you will know better!” Maloof turned to his comrades. “Are we ready?”

  The four returned up the aisle. The old woman hobbled in pursuit: hopping, skipping, shouting, reviling Maloof and all his works. Wingo, while pretending to adjust his cloak, created several ‘mood impressions’, which he later discovered to be striking. Maloof finally relented and placed the scissors down on the ground. The old woman scuttled forward, snatched them up, shouted a final volley of horrifying abuse, performed an obscene gesture, then hobbled back the way she had come, waving the scissors in gleeful triumph.

  “A depressing spectacle,” said Wingo sadly. “The woman has quite demeaned herself.”

  They reached the gate without further incident. The young IPCC agent greeted them with: “How did you find the market?”

  “Interesting but not to our taste,” said Maloof.

  “We stopped by the refreshment platform,” said Schwatzendale. “The beer was flat; the fish was sour; the serving woman was surly and cheated us, as well. I cannot recommend the place.”

  “I will keep your opinion in mind,” said the agent. “I take it you won’t be back?”

  “Not on this occasion,” said Maloof. “We are off to Sholo in the morning.”

  “Hm. I will give you some unofficial advice. Dark deeds are done at Sholo! Go nowhere alone. Carry your gun at the ready. Shoot first; ask questions, not
second, nor third, but much later, if at all. Still, it is easy to lose one’s pelt at Sholo.”

  2

  In the morning the Glicca, departing Dulcie Diver, skimmed westward: across a succession of badlands, salt deserts, mountain ranges, an arid steppe. Spires and monoliths thrust high into the slanting orange sunlight, casting stark black shadows. The steppe continued, mile after mile, finally to abut against the Panton Scarp (named for the original locator Jule Panton). The scarp reared half a mile above the steppe, with the village Sholo huddled at its base, along with the spaceport.

  The scarp separated two antagonistic races: the Meluli, who inhabited the plateau at the top of the scarp, and the Shuja who ranged the steppe below. The races were culturally similar, but physically distinct, which prompted each race to abhor the other.

  Maloof had visited Sholo on a previous occasion. “The Shuja and the Meluli are quite different, one from another,” he told Myron. “The Shuja are pale — sallow ivory, if you like — with light brown hair. Their ears are pointed at the top; the children often have the look of little fauns, and can be quite charming if you don’t allow them behind your back. The Meluli are different. They are thin and angular, with rapacious faces the color of clay; and they move in nervous jerks and jumps. The Shuja are more civilized, if the word in this context means anything. It is possible to visit the tavern which is adjacent to the terminal at Sholo without instant danger, provided you are suitably cautious. Both Shuja and Meluli export bales of leather tanned from human hides. They both claim that they have nothing else to export, so they must make do.”

  “Interesting, if macabre,” said Myron. “Who furnishes the hides?”

  “Anyone with a hide, whether he needs it or not. Shuja and Meluli hunt each other, and raid the Uche savages. Any corpse is useful, if it has not gone stale. Off-worlders are often converted into corpses, blond corpses being especially desirable.” Maloof appraised Myron’s sleek blond hair, but made no comment.

  Myron asked dubiously, “Are we taking aboard a cargo of hides?”

  Maloof shrugged. “Why not? The hides go to Cax on Blenkinsop; Cax is already on our itinerary. If we don’t take the cargo, the next ship will.”

  The argument was unassailable, thought Myron. He asked, “What happens to the hides at Cax?”

  “They become furniture, wall hangings, objects of virtu. Artists use the pelts in their compositions. I saw one such artwork entitled ‘Children at Play’. A large panel was painted to represent a garden. Pelts of at least eight children were glued flat to the panel, to show them at their games: leap-frog and ring-a-round-the-rosey. The faces were like flat masks, the mouths twisted into grins of delight, the eye-holes staring out at the viewer. The picture sold for a very high price. But no matter! We are spacemen, not art connoisseurs. The Glicca is indifferent to what it carries.”

  The Panton Scarp stretched across the landscape. The Glicca settled upon the Sholo Spaceport, close under the scarp. Seen from above, Sholo was unimpressive. A crude foundry, a few bedraggled shops, a tannery and its sump, a shipping agent’s office, a warehouse and the Glad Song Tavern ranged around a central quadrangle. A clutter of huts straggled off across the steppe, each with a patch of garden planted to beanbushes, kibber and scruff.

  The Glicca landed. Captain Maloof assembled the ship’s company in the main saloon. “I have visited this place before,” he told them. “Conditions at the time were strange and dangerous, and I don’t think that they have changed. If you leave the ship, guard your life as if it were as precious to you as your pelt is to the Shuja! Go nowhere alone. If you visit the Glad Song Tavern, be careful what you drink. Avoid the shops; they sell nothing you might wish to buy. There are no prostitutes; they would be redundant, since chastity is unknown. But control your quick emotions! Should you pay your respects to a Shuja lady, she will appraise you, not as a gallant gentleman, but as a walking pelt, of greater or lesser value.”

  “Incredible!” declared Deter Kalash in disgust. “There is nothing here to attract us. I suggest that we leave immediately for Coro-Coro!”

  “Not so fast!” said Myron. “We have cargo to discharge.”

  “Also,” said Wingo, “these folk are truly interesting, if only because they live by what we would consider a distorted social philosophy. I would like to give them at least a cursory glance.”

  “Do as you like,” snapped Kalash. “But remember! If you are killed and stripped of your pelt, or otherwise injured so that the cuisine suffers, we shall demand a substantial rebate from Captain Maloof.”

  “Well spoken!” declared Schwatzendale. “Any such rebate should be deducted from Wingo’s salary!”

  “Be serious if you please!” said Wingo. “These folk live by a set of mysterious rules which function as moral principles. It would be interesting if we could codify these rules, and make them more understandable to us.”

  “No doubt,” said Maloof. “But please attempt no research! A party of ethnologists and graduate students came here about ten years ago with such ideas in mind. Their equipment was modern, their theories profound. The Uche ate some of them; the others donated their pelts to the Shuja.”

  Wingo shook his head despondently. “That is a sad tale. Still, it is a mistake to become exercised, or so I suppose. Sometimes I feel that virtue and vice are like bats flitting through the Gaean subconscious, and can never be defined even by consensus.”

  “Well put, Wingo!” said Maloof. “You have an undeniable knack for turning a phrase!”

  Schwatzendale said, “If Wingo records some of his ‘mood impressions’, even only at the Glad Song Tavern, he will surely capture the inner nature of these people, and some of the mystery should be illuminated.”

  “That is my hope!” said Wingo. “It is a challenge but I will do my best.”

  3

  At Sholo spaceport there were no formalities. Myron saw to the discharge of cargo, while Captain Maloof and Schwatzendale visited the export agent and arranged that the merchandise on hand should be crated, invoiced and delivered to the Glicca on the following day.

  Schwatzendale returned to the Glicca, unshipped the flitter, then summoned Myron. “Do you own a gun?”

  “No.”

  “It is time that you did.”

  Schwatzendale rummaged through a locker in the saloon and brought out a squat black gun, which he handed to Myron. “This is a Detractor Model Nine, the Blue Spot version, very useful. One of the passengers left it aboard. Can you use it?”

  “Certainly.”

  “It is now yours.”

  “Thank you. Who am I to shoot?”

  “Possibly no one. We’re going up to Mel, at the top of the scarp. Bring along the gun. We will be talking to the Meluli hetman and perhaps a few others. Keep your gun in evidence at all times. Brandish it, flourish it, catch their attention! If anyone so much as sniffs, shoot him. This is the kind of conduct they respect.”

  Wingo had come into the saloon. “You are discussing the Shuja?”

  “Both the Shuja and the Meluli. They kill easily, but they are terrified of dying themselves; it means that they must wander forever across the steppe by night, without their skins. They are gentle as songbirds when you wave a gun in their faces.”

  Wingo mused, “Most curious! At Sholo brutal intimidation is the first of the social graces.” He noticed Myron’s gun, and looked dubiously toward Schwatzendale. “What are your plans?”

  “We are flying up to Mel at the top of the scarp. They may have cargo ready for shipment.”

  Wingo glanced at the gun in displeasure. “Myron is still inexperienced. Perhaps he should not undertake such tasks until he is a bit more seasoned.”

  Schwatzendale cocked his head at an angle and appraised Myron critically from head to foot. “He is probably not the innocent lamb you take him for.”

  Wingo said in disgust, “You have the silver tongue of an orator. I will go up with you and sit at the Ruptor with my hand on the trigger. If I fire off a burst
or two and scorch their laundry, they are sure to treat you nicely.”

  “That is a sound idea!” said Schwatzendale. He jumped to his feet, all angles and sidewise slants. “I am ready; shall we go?”

  The three climbed aboard the flitter and flew up the face of Panton Scarp, to the brink and over. The plateau stretched away, bleak and forlorn, to a far range of low hills, dim in the hazy orange light. A mile inland from the brink the village Mel occupied a strip of gravelly barrens beside a small dark pond.

  The flitter flew to the village, turned, circled at an altitude of three hundred yards. Mel seemed even more cheerless than Sholo. A clutter of ramshackle huts surrounded the pond; to the side stood a line of nondescript shops, a market, and several large structures built of timber and rock-melt housing the tannery, the foundry, the warehouse, with the office of the shipping agent adjacent. There seemed to be neither tavern nor inn. Out on the plain a number of cattle grazed at the sparse brown sedge.

  The flitter continued to circle the village until folk came out to stare; Schwatzendale then landed the flitter on a flat about fifty yards from the warehouse. He and Myron jumped to the ground, guns at the ready, while Wingo stood by the forward Ruptor. He had pulled a black cap low over his pink face, to make himself look grim and menacing.